


A Greyjoy's Gamble

by 1nsomnizac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:46:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5071438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1nsomnizac/pseuds/1nsomnizac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theon hatches a plan to foil his father's surprise attack on the North and remove him from power. But his allies have plans of their own, and when krakens clash, the sharks circle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Theon I

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first version of this first scene a couple months back when I finished reading A Feast for Crows and got a sense of how greatly the war was prolonged by the Ironborn's involvement, and how many of the events of the books were directly tied to the taking of Winterfell. In other words, I was trying to figure out how the Red Wedding could have been avoided, and I decided Theon would have to a) not take Winterfell and b) keep Victarion from taking Moat Cailin. More recently, I reread the relevant chapters, and I decided to rewrite it, hammer out some continuity problems, and post it online.  
> I hope you enjoy it!

Theon

Dawn was hours away. The storm had shaken seven ships from the Sea Bitch, and all but a score were washed from its deck. Aeron would have spoken of the Storm God and his fury, but the Drowned Man had washed away as well. For all Theon Greyjoy knew, he was a drowned man in every sense of the phrase.

Theon felt little at losing his uncle. His jolly uncle Aeron, the man who he had known as a child, had drowned long ago. _Who was the Damphair to me_ , Theon thought, _but a spy for my father?_

Theon spat over the rail. _I did not turn on Robb for eight ships and a spy at my back_ , he thought bitterly. _And at least at Winterfell, Asha wasn’t there to humiliate me_.

It felt profoundly unfair that his captor’s family trusted him, and the father who sent him away did not. _Eddard Stark would have killed me to punish my father,_ he thought, fuming, _I thought I meant something to him._

Wex tapped on his shoulder. He turned to see the squire holding his sword. It was a good sword, but plain; the only adornment was a small kraken that was carved into the cross-guard over the grip. The old smith at Winterfell was loath to even add that. _It’s a sword_ , Mikken told Theon, _Will it serve you best reminding you who father is? I make no mere keepsakes_. But he gave in, and gave it to his apprentice to carve. Theon  saw Mikken’s mark on the blade, above the chappe.

He looked at Wex. _Squiring is a greenlander custom_ , he reflected. _The Botleys seem to be doing well trading with greenlanders, if Lordsport looked so well_.

“Your family, the Botleys,” Theon said, “do you like them? They treat you like family?”

Wex looked Theon in the eye for a second, as if trying to discern a trap. He nodded slowly.

 _His family gains nothing from this war with the North,_ Theon thought. _And I won’t either._

The thought came unbidden to mind. _No glory, no kingdom, no respect. Why am I doing this? For blood? What has my blood ever done but get me taken from my home?_

Theon thought about his blood. His uncles were cold and distant, even once-cheerful Aeron. Of Euron he had no memory. He tried to remember the brothers, slain by the knights under the crowned stag. Vague memories of voices were all that remained.

_I lost my brothers and my home because of a war my father started. It’s his fault, and now he sets that bitch over me._

An idea took Theon, and he smirked. _He’ll pay the Iron Price._

He looked at Wex again. “I had a family like that once. I want it back. And I’m going to take it. When I do, the Ironborn must either commit to a long, bloody war, or rebel against my father. Maybe Botleys will do for the Islands what they did for Lordsport. Do you understand?”

Wex looked at him, shocked. Then he nodded.

“Are you with me?”

Wex nodded again.

“Here’s what we’ll do.”

#####

When dawn came, Theon sat in the rigging with the only bow and quiver on the ship. The ironborn preferred the ax and the sword and the club, but Theon had brought his bow from Winterfell. _This will be the second time I save a Stark with this bow_ , he thought, _he had better thank me for it this time._

The man named Fishwhiskers Botley and his sons were watching him from the deck. Fishwhiskers’ catfish mustache swayed as an ocean breeze blew across the longship.

“Ironborn,” Theon called, “Hear me! The time has come to take the path to glory.”

The other Ironborn looked up, but one man simply guffawed and kept digging in his pack. Theon drew and fired. The shaft buried itself in the back of the man’s neck.

“When a captain speaks, his crew must listen,” Theon said, affecting a calm air. _I hadn’t meant to hit there,_ he thought. _At least I have their attention._ Every eye was on him now.

“As I said, glory beckons. We have but one ship and nineteen men among us, but if you follow me loyally, we will be the nineteen men who bring the Ironborn fortunes we have not had since the Dragon Kings landed in Westeros. Even now, the North has broken free of the fat southron lords and their brother-fucking queen. Even now, the North wishes to ally with us, to join them in raiding the fertile south and their rich lords. But Balon Greyjoy would have us instead attack the North, for what? What does the North have for us, that the South does not have dozens of times over? What does he want? Vengeance for sons long dead? It was Southron knights who killed them. And what is dead can never die!”

From the crowd below, eighteen voices murmured, “What is dead may never die.”

“He would have us raid fisherman and peasants, when lords of wine and wheat lie to the south. And when we have shed our blood for a stony shore, the southron lords will send their fleets to cut us off from the islands and kill us like they did ten years ago. He is throwing away any chance you have to take what should be yours so he can have the glory of conquering the North for a season.

“We will thwart my father’s stupid plot. We will lead the uprising that will enrich the Ironborn forever!”

“I’m no fool!” said one of them, “how will we raid the south if we have to fight each other first? And why should I follow you over your father?This is folly, plain as day.”

Theon looked down at the man. He was a Harlaw, Dykk. He had a lean face and a large nose, and he squinted at Theon in open contempt.

“While you are on my crew, you will follow me,” Theon said, “and while we depose my father, I shall lead. But when my father is off the Seastone chair, there will be a Kingsmoot.”

Dykk raised his eyebrows in surprise, and glanced at Gevin, the other Harlaw onboard.

“This is madness!” shouted Rymolf. The steersman was a member of Victarion Greyjoy’s crew. “Do you think you can win against the Iron Fleet? Victarion will slaughter you!”

Theon smiled, though his heart beat a little faster. “That will not be a problem. I have a plan for my uncle, and it won’t remain his fleet forever.”

The man roared. “Listen to this vile schemer! He’s a treacherous greenlander snake, and we should—”

The haft of an axe collided with Rymolf’s temple and the man went down. The man called Gadwyk stood over him, smiling. He looked up at Theon. “Will there be lands and salt wives worth taking left for us thrall’s sons, when we move on the South?”

Theon looked at him. The man had a hungry look in his eye. Theon smiled again, this time it was genuine. _Now I know_ , he thought, _I_ know _how to win them over._

“There will be castles for thrall’s sons, and bastards, too,” Theon said, “But only if they fight to take it. Are you ready to start a house, Gadwyk?”

Gadwyk grinned. Raising his ax, he said, “I’m ready to take one!”

A few others nodded and exchanged looks. Maron Botley, the man they called Fishwhiskers stepped forward and said, “If I can send word to the Botley at Lordsport, we can bring them in as well.”

Theon nodded to him. Botley knew the plan already, and had insisted that the Kingsmoot be made a part of the plan. Theon said, “The Botleys are with us! Who else?”

Gevin Harlaw spoke up. “The Reader mislikes this war. I am sure he will join you.”

Theon felt giddy. _The support of the Harlaws, and through them the Myres and the Kennings, gives us a fleet. With men like Gadwyk on our side, we need only a few more houses loyalty to succeed._

“With the Harlaws and Botleys, we can do this. With a few more, our victory will be certain! With the Northmen on our side, we can claim the richest lands in Westeros, and make them Iron lands! Are you with me?”

“Aye!” said Fishwhiskers.

“Aye!” said his sons.

“Aye!” Said Dykk Harlaw.

“Hail, Theon Ironland!” said Gadwyk. All the lowborn sailors began shouting it as well, and soon the Harlaws and the Botleys took up the chant as well. The only silent ones were Wex, and the dazed man at Gadwyk’s feet.


	2. The Blackfish

Ser Brynden Tully sighed as he looked out of the window of Lord Marbrand’s former quarters. Ashemark was a land of hills, wooded or tilled or barren, and the land on which castle Ashemark stood was no exception. The seat of House Marbrand was a tall, square keep on a hill, ringed at the hill’s bottom by a diamond shaped outer wall.

The hills surrounding the castle gate were only half as high as the walls, but they were close enough for siege engines. A group of Galbart Glover’s men constructed a pair of onagers and used them to rain stones upon the men guarding the gate, as a score of Karstark men battered down the gate and held it open long enough for Robb and his riders to run through the yard.

Between the Marbrand army marching with Lord Tywin Lannister, and the Marbrand men in the army they had routed at Oxcross, the Ashemark garrison was a skeleton crew, and had surrendered quickly. They could not hope withstand Robb’s army once they had broken through.

Brynden corrected himself. _It’s the King’s army._ As he watched men moving in the yard he thought, _it’s_ my _King’s army. I never would have guessed that one day would I call my grand-nephew my King._

He turned away from the window and looked at his king. Though he was only fifteen years of age, Robb looked the part. He was tall and is face was fair, but his features were harder and leaner than they were when they first met. He wore a white surcoat with a grey wolf’s head emblazoned on the front, a crown sewn over its head in black thread. Beneath his surcoat his mail shifted and shimmered. Brynden saw an echo of the hardness in Ned Stark’s grey eyes in Robb’s pale blue ones, burdened with kingly cares.

“We have no word yet on Tywin’s movements,” the King said, “I think he suspects the trap.”

“I am sure Tywin _suspects_ ,” said Brynden, “He is no fool. But the fastest way to reach the Westerlands from Harrenhal is by crossing the Red Fork. The alternatives are to travel out of the Riverlands and onto the Goldroad, or to try to move an army through the hills to the south of the Fork. Either way, he risks giving us the time we need to bring down the Golden Tooth.”

“He’ll plan something then. He’ll bring in some force we won’t know about, or break one of our forces before we converge on him.”

Brynden frowned. _It will do no good if he panics at the thought of facing Tywin in battle._ “With his army at Oxcross destroyed, the Lannisters have no large forces in the Westerlands they can bring in to surprise us. And if he deploys his garrison at Golden Tooth, we’ll be there to hit them from behind.”

Robb frowned, thinking. “Perhaps,” he said, “Even so, I want to be prepa--”

There was a knock at the door. Olyvar Frey, Robb’s squire, opened the door and hurried in. “Your Grace,” he said. He noticed Brynden at the window and said, “Ser Tully,” before returning his attention to Robb.

“Two messages, Your Grace. One is from Seaguard, with Lord Mallister’s personal seal. The other is from Flint’s Finger.”

Robb took the two messages, still rolled up and sealed, his shoulders hunching. Brynden thought he knew why. It had been nearly a month since Theon Greyjoy had left Seaguard to ensure an alliance with the ironborn, and no word had returned at all.

Robb opened the message from Seaguard first. He scanned the note quickly, his eyes moving rapidly over the paper, then slower. “Lord Jason has received no ships from the Iron Islands for over a month, There was a storm recently, and the wrecks of several longships have washed up on his shores. He wants permission to send a spy ship. He believes the ironborn are plotting something.”

His voice was regulated, but his body language betrayed his nerves. He picked up the second and broke the stone hand seal of the Flints of Flint’s Finger. His eyes widened as he read in silence. After a minute he looked up without saying anything. The tension in his shoulders seemed to recede. He turned to Olyvar and said, “bring the Lords to the meeting chamber. This cannot wait. Hurry.”

As Olyvar hurried away, he said, "walk with me, Uncle.”

They walked down the stairs at a brisk pace. Brynden asked, “What was the news? Is it Greyjoy?”

Brynden was to Robb’s right, but even without a good view of his grand-nephew’s face he could tell Robb was smiling. For a moment, he seemed like a boy of fifteen, and not a war-hardened king. “You’re right, Uncle,” he said. His smile was in his voice as well. “It is Greyjoy.”

Brynden got nothing more out of him as they walked into the meeting room. It had high thin windows and a single thick wooden door, which made the room an ideal place for private meetings. Lord Marbrand had obviously thought so as well; a large wooden chair with the burning tree of Marbrand carved into the back ruled one wall, and headed a long, low table with a map of Westeros on it. A set of low benches and chairs had been pushed against the other walls.

Maege Mormont was the first to enter, followed by Rickard Karstark and the Greatjon. Black Walder Frey and Galbart Glover follow Olyvar inside soon after.

Robb sat down, wearing his King’s face again. Brynden and the others followed. “My Lords,” he said, “I will be blunt. Balon Greyjoy plots treachery, and may be moving against us even now.”

A ripple of shock passed through the lords, Brynden among them. _I was expecting good news_.

Robb continued. “Lady Flint of Flint’s Finger tells me that Balon is splitting the Iron Fleet. Eight ships were to raid the stony shore. Asha Greyjoy would take Deepwood Motte with thirty longships, and while the North moved against her, Victarion Greyjoy would take two and sixty longships up the Fever River to take Moat Cailin.”

“How many men are holding Moat Cailin?” Black Walder asked.

“There are about a hundred men at Cailin, archers mainly,” replied Lord Rickard, “They are good Karstark men, and true, but they are not equipped to withstand an assault from the north.”

“You speak of longships,” Black Walder cut in, “I am not as familiar with the ironborn as a Mallister or a Mormont. How many men does a longship hold?”

“A longship can hold as many as one hundred men,” said Lady Maege, “but in the Iron Fleet they carry a quarter of that in order to man every boat.”

“Then we are looking at around half and fifteen hundred ironborn at Moat Cailin, and half and seven hundred at Deepwood,” Black Walder said, “How many men can we move in a hurry? How many ships?”

“The Dustins, Flints, Tallharts, and Ryswells are the closest to Moat Cailin,” Lord Galbart said, “They should send men to Moat Cailin. Maybe Bear Island could field ships or men to aid my sister-in-law at the Motte. And maybe aid from the Umbers as well?”

“I’ll send Crowfood or Whoresbane to Deepwood,” declared the Greatjon. Galbart nodded thankfully.

“Most of our ships are built for fishermen, not soldiers,” Mormont said, “But I can send aid to Deepwood all the same.”

Rickard Karstark cleared his throat. “As for Moat Cailin, even if Ryswell, Dustin, Tallhart, and Flint each send a hundred men, that still leaves Moat Cailin outnumbered five to fifteen.”

“What about the crannogmen?” asked Brynden, looking at the Neck on the map.

Black Walder snorted. “The frogmen are cowards. They would be unsuited for a battle.”

“We can play to their strengths,” suggested Karstark. “They use poison, I’m told. They could harry the ironborn and poison them as they travel upriver.”

Black Walder seemed unconvinced. “Lord Helman Tallhart has four hundred men stationed at the Twins, your Grace. Send them up the road to defend the Moat instead.”

“With Lord Tallhart’s men, We are only outnumbered three to five.”

“Send the Mallister warships to even up the odds.”

“Use the Crannogmen.”

“Can the Freys send men to the Moat?”

“What about the Manderlys? Do they have men to send?”

“What about sell-sails?”

“ _What about_ sell-sails? What could we pay with?”

_The room is coming away from him_ , thought Brynden. Olyvar got up to answer the door, which had been knocked. Robb sat in the chair, studying the map. Then he stood. “My Lords,” he said. Brynden stood respectfully, and after a second, the lords noticed and stood as well.

“I thank you for your counsel. Here is my plan. Lord Helman’s men will march up the Kingsroad to fortify Moat Cailin. Two hundred men from Frey lands shall go with them.”

Black Walder nodded.

“Lady Flint will send a hundred men up the Fever to Moat Cailin, and set fishing boats at the Fever’s mouth to sink should the ironborn arrive. Jason Mallister will send his ships to cut into their numbers and take ships from them. Leo Tallhart, Lady Dustin, Lord Ryswell, and Lord Manderly will send a hundred men each over land. Lord Reed will bring his crannogmen to the banks of the Fever and attack any force or ship not flying a Stark banner.

“Mors Umber will move three hundred men to Deepwood Motte. Bear Island will watch for ironborn on the sea, and harry them at every opportunity.”

Olyvar entered and silently handed Robb another message. As Robb read, Rickard Karstark said, “A good plan, Your Grace. If the Ironborn are already moving against us, there may not be time for reinforcements to reach Moat Cailin.”

“There will be time,” said Black Walder, “if the Fever is blocked to their ships. The Neck is treacherous and the mud men even more so. It will take weeks for them to reach Moat Cailin on foot, and they will bleed with every step.”

Robb looked up. “My lords, it is time to move. Tywin has been seen approaching the Red Fork. Are there any objections to the plan?”

“Mors can send more men to Deepwood,” said the Greatjon, “four and a half hundred.”

“Then it is settled. Get your men ready, today we march to the mountain pass.”

As the other lords left, Brynden approached Robb. “There was something else, wasn’t there?” Brynden asked, “something more in the message from Lady Flint. Good news.”

Robb looked at Brynden and smiled. “The person who alerted Lady Flint to the plot was Theon Greyjoy. He is gathering support from the ironborn lords of Harlaw and Botley, and is making to overthrow his father.”

Brynden raised his eyebrows. “I can hardly believe it. Rebellion against his own blood is a rare thing.”

“Renly Baratheon seemed to have no trouble doing so.”

“Aye, and look what that brought him.”

“This is _good_ news, Uncle. Theon will become the king of the Iron Islands, and we’ll have a firm ally with a large fleet. Sometimes you seem to seek out trouble.”

Brynden frowned. “Trouble always finds you, it helps to guess how it will come. And Theon seems a source of trouble. Why does he not lead the raid on Moat Cailin or Deepwood Motte? How does he end up at Flint’s Finger with sensitive information, and why does a King’s son want to overthrow his father?”

“He knows us, and wants no war against his friends.”

“It seems to me that he might have been better at preventing war if he had gathered his rebels on the Islands instead of sailing to Flint’s Finger to inform us.”

“That might not have been an option.”

“Perhaps. We know next to nothing about this, and it makes me uneasy.”

“I understand, Uncle. But I trust Theon. He could have died for me at Whispering Wood, and he saved Bran from a wildling. He has always been like an elder brother.”

Brynden thought of his elder brother Hoster, and the arguments that erupted between them. “Elder brothers do not always look out for their younger brothers,” he said, shifting the obsidian fish which held his cape. Robb’s eyes flicked to it, then back to Brynden’s face.

“This Theon can still disappoint you. Be prepared for that,” Brynden said, but Robb's face told him it was a lost cause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ser Brynden is one of those characters I wished we saw more of in canon.


	3. Theon II

“I offer you the hospitality of my House,” Rodrik the Reader intoned flatly, “Eat of my bread and salt, and be welcome.”

Lord Rodrik Harlaw was a plain looking man, neither handsome nor ugly. His nose was slightly beakish, and his hair and beard were neatly cut and almost completely grey. He gestured to the table beside him as he spoke, but his eyes were fixed on Theon.

Theon nodded, wearing the private smile he often used to unsettle Lady Stark, and approached the table. He tore a chunk from a loaf of sourdough and dipped it in a bowl of coarse sea salt. Helman Snow, the man his men called Hard Helman, followed suit, and Wex, and the mixed company of northmen and ironborn, until the loaf was nearly gone and breadcrumbs filled the bowl of salt. Ten men each of Flint and Iron had followed Theon, Wex, and Hard Helman from Flint’s Finger. Gevin Harlaw and five others had agreed to stay at Flint’s Finger, as good faith hostages, and Victarion’s man Rymolf had been put in the dungeon in poorer faith.

When all had eaten, Rodrik sat back in his chair. “Dykk, it is good to see you. Is Gevin at the Flint’s keep?”

“He is, Uncle,” said Dykk, “he volunteered. The Flints promised to treat him as a guest.”

“Small favors, I suppose. If only they had Rodney as well. The storm took his ship, did it?”

“As far as we can tell, yes.”

Rodrik nodded. He turned to Helman. “I suppose you are a Flint?”

“Half a Flint, at least. I am Helman Snow.”

“I see,” said Rodrik. “You speak for your father’s house.” It was not a question.

Hard Helman nodded. “I do.”

Theon noticed that Rodrik began to slump over the course of the conversation, only to correct his posture occasionally. _Is he that used to hunching over his books,_  thought Theon, _or is this some mummery he puts on for guests?_

“I will speak frankly, Northman,” said Rodrik, “I have little cause to fight the Iron Throne, as little cause as I have to fight the North. Why should I rebel against my king to trade one war for another?”

A smile briefly tugged at Helman’s lips. “Besides ending the claim that the Iron Throne makes upon your island? It was not the Starks whose fleet invaded the Isles when Balon rose the first time. They will try to take you again once they are free of other wars.”

“Besides that,” said Rodrik, straightening again.

“At the victory Kingsmoot, you will get a chance to become King of the Isles yourself. It gives you a chance to enrich your House with lands and plunder. And most importantly, it gives the Myres and the Kennings some room to expand other than at your expense.”

Harlaw, raised his eyebrows at the last. Theon grinned at Helman. The man had recounted histories he had read of at Fort Flint, and had badgered Theon about the various Houses of the Isle of Harlaw. _I might have known he was planning something,_ Theon thought, _the Reader is not the only man here who plays with men’s esteem._

“You know something about Harlaw, it seems,” Lord Rodrik said, “But little of me. I am lord of a large and scattered House, although not so far scattered as you Flints are. It makes being king of seven islands unappealing. Say, does your family keep contact with the Flints in the Northern Hills? The histories are not clear on this point.”

Hard Helman’s eyebrows rose this time. “You know something about the North, it seems,” he said.

“I am not called Rodrik the Reader for nothing..” _Helman didn’t answer the Reader’s question,_ Theon thought, _and Rodrik knows it. Interesting._

“As for the schemes of Myres and Kennings,” Rodrik continued, “there is a reason they are our vassals. Harlaw is a large House, with many ships and many sons. But ships and sons are the cost of war, along with silver. A long war will bleed us of all of these. So when will your King’s war end? When the Lannisters are defeated? When the Iron Throne surrenders? When there remains no player in the game of thrones that wants the North for themselves? That road is long, and as your King’s words cry, winter is coming.”

_He stopped slouching,_ Theon noticed.

“When the King’s sisters are safe in their brother’s lands, and the boy king renounces his claim to the North, the Riverlands, and the Iron Isles, we will have won the war.”

“And when will the boy king do that? When the Lions are pulled from their den in King’s Landing?”

“The Lannisters will surrender when Casterly Rock is sieged and seized.”

“And the North needs a fleet to besiege the Rock,” Rodrik said. He stood from his chair and turned to Theon.

“I am willing to join you, but I have a price.” He fixed Theon with a stare. “You will make your sister your heir, when she throws in with us.”

Theon’s fury flared as he took in the older man’s words. “My sister needs no reason to stab me in the back,” he snapped, glaring at the Reader with suspicion. Rodrik returned his gaze placidly. “Why her?” Theon asked.

“Asha is a reasonable one,” the Reader replied, “If you fall in battle, I want our leader to bring the war to a swift end. If you want my support, Asha will succeed you.”

“Reasonable,” Theon repeated. He was livid. _That_ bitch _will never sit the Seastone Chair,_ he thought. It took several seconds to calm down. “Make no mistake, I would rather make Dykk here my successor, but I am willing to name her my heir until I find a suitable rock wife to wed. Will that suit you?”

A thought struck Theon, and he said, “And even then, only if she joins quickly. If she attacks Deepwood Motte, the Northmen will crush her and lop her head off. King Robb might do it himself.”

Rodrik looked at Theon with a frown. “She left Pyke with thirty ships only this morning. We can reach her in time.” He stepped toward Theon. “You have my terms. When Asha joins us, you will make her your heir, until such time as you have a wife. You agree to end our involvement in the war once the Iron Throne surrenders. And one more thing. You will take a Harlaw into your small council if you should win the Kingsmoot.”

“Small councils are a greenlander custom,” Theon said.

“As is your Botley squire. Do I have your word?”

Theon looked at the man. He stood straight, but his face remained remarkably still, as if he was talking of some boring book. _I don’t have anyone’s loyalty,_ thought Theon, _I must buy this man’s services or pay the Iron Price. And he knows it._

“You have my word,” Theon said.


	4. Asha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been over two years since I began this work, and those two years have not been kind to me. But this month, a reader bugged me about finishing this fic, and I told them that I would have another chapter of this out by January's end.   
> And so I have. I will finish what I started soon enough.

Sawane Botley’s keep was squat and square and stone, and its green flags strewn with silver fish had turned dark in the rain. They almost seemed like trails of tears running from the eyes of a stone face, with the arched gate posing as a wailing mouth.

Asha stood on the deck of an old, barnacle-crusted longship, her men at the oars around her, driving the ship past Lordsport. It had no sail and no mast, and there were holes in the deck that had been hastily boarded over. It was a disposable ship, and Asha was taking it on its last voyage. Balon had emptied Pyke of much of its men to fill the Iron Fleet, and the Botleys were making their move.

_ We have Harlaw and Blacktyde, _ she thought,  _ but Theon will not be able to rally Great Wyk or Orkmont. At best, they will wait until Balon is unseated before supporting their own people in the kingsmoot. _

She frowned.  _ At worst, they will attack Lordsport as soon as they hear about this. So we move today. I guess Botley doesn’t trust Theon to get the job done, either. _

The ship’s four anchors sat by her railings. The men moved the ship by oars alone, at a fraction of her  _ Black Wind’s _ best speed. The ship would be hugging the cliffs.

She thought of the brother she met on Pyke a month ago.  _ He was a disgusting prancing fool, and thought of nothing but his own desires. So how did he turn a ship against our father, let alone get Uncle Rodrick to go along with it? _

She thought of the Houses that had joined when she returned to Harlaw.  _ Botley, Merlyn, Orkwood, Saltcliffe and Codd are all low houses, and all from different islands. The only large Houses are Harlaw and Blacktyde, and only seven in all. But that’s still seven more than I thought he was capable of taking. _

When she talked to Theon, he had spoken of things that he should be given.  _ He’s acting like an Ironborn now, and taking for himself. _

The downpour got heavier as they approached the cliffs of Pyke. Fat drops fell in her hair and sunk to the root, and her scalp tingled at the chill. Before them the sea tower of Pyke emerged from the gloom.

It was hard to tell where the sea-stained rock ended and the ancient stone blocks began. Both were weathered and stained white with salt and bird shit. The tower’s crown was dark with lichen. The slender line of a bridge extended to the next tower on the next irregular platform of sea stone. Other bridges extended from that tower to the Bloody Keep and the Great Keep, and the crescent wall of Pyke on the island itself.

_ It is a fitting castle for my House, _ she thought,  _ solitary islands linked by narrow bridges. _

Above and away, you can hear the sounds of commotion.  _ The Botleys are making their move. It’s time to make mine. _

Her men rowed up to the base of the Sea Tower and let the anchors drop. The waves were high and set the ship bobbing in place, across from the rock pile that climbed up the sea tower’s base, and the gash in the rock that led inside the tower’s bare and useless ground floor.

Their man inside the castle had already let down a rope ladder to the crashing waves. The climb up the rocks in the rain was the easy part. The hard part was getting to the ship close enough to the ladder without breaking it on the rocks. If the ship broke up, they would have mere minutes before the cold froze them and they sunk.

The men pulled up one of the anchors, and another, and the waves began to push the longship toward the rocks. The men wielded their long oars, pushing away from one submerged rock, then another. Ten yards from the cliff, they dropped anchors again. The anchor was barely submerged when it hit stone in front of them. Suddenly a big wave crashed against the ship, and all could hear the hull scraping against the stone.

When the wave receded, the ship was wedged against the face of the rockpile at an angle, and by the sound of it, the hull was punctured by stone. Asha went across the deck, moving uphill, and climbed onto the railing. The end of the ladder was a foot out of reach. She could jump and grab it. But doing so would also slam her against the rock.

Qarl climbed up the deck beside her and looped the second-lowest rung over an oar and brought it to her. She could feel her crew’s eyes on her as she took the first rung. Then she rolled her shoulders and started up.

The wind was picking up, and the ladder swayed as she worked her way up. Rung after rung, swaying as men climbed on after her, a dozen body lengths, a score, and then, with her fingers wet and palms rope-raw, she hauled herself through the hole into the Sea Tower.

She moved out of the way of the men behind her, and drew a hand through her drenched hair. Qarl the Maid emerged, and Asha helped him up. Rolfe the Dwarf, the biggest man on the ship, got his shoulders wedged in the narrowest part of the opening and had to be hauled up.

The Sea Tower was used mainly as a watchpost on the sea, and few besides the watchmen walked the rope bridge thereto and therefrom. The watchman was gone, the tower empty. The sounds of Botley’s men at the gate echoed between the crash of the waves. 

Then, in the distance, the lightning struck. The Storm God’s spear was out to sea, upwind of Pyke. There was a pause, and the thunder rumbled in.

Asha moved her axes from her back to her hips. “Time to move,” she called, and set off across the bridge.

The wind attacked her the instant she stepped away from the shelter of the tower. The sound of the wind was terrible, sounding almost like the hoarse voice of a cruel god. The sound pushed away the groaning of the ropes, the agitated smashing of the water below, the sound of men’s voices in the castle beyond, in the tower behind. The wind pulled at the rope bridge and set it rocking and groaning as the howl died. The wooden slats beneath her feet were slick and dark and wet with rain.

_ On _ , she thought,  _ on. Your men are behind you. On. _

She could feel the bridge move up and down as someone joined her on the bridge. She stepped forward deliberately, cautiously, neither slow nor fast. Behind her, she thought she heard a voice say, “what is dead can never die”.

A lock of black hair fell in front of her face, long enough to enter her peripheral vision. Lightning again. Halfway to the other side, the thunder. Water soaked her hair, and a new gust of wind chilled it deeply.  _ Crows take you, Theon _ , she thought.

A jolt of motion shook the bridge. Asha sucked in a cold breath.  _ Was it a fall? _ She turned her head back. Hagg was hanging from the rope railings, one leg bent under him, the other splayed over the edge. The look on his face was shock at being alive. The man behind him was saying something, laughing. Asha gestured forward and resumed crossing.

Thunder rolled again. She had missed the lightning. She set foot on the other side. The stone walls of the Kitchen Keep were stained black with the smoke of centuries. She walked past rusted old doors to a wide room, with low, brown-stained tables and a wide hearth that opened onto the buildings central chimney. Hearth was cold and hall was empty, save for the lingering scent of smoke. Stairs led up and down, to cellars below and better used cookeries above.

Mykk and Rolfe came in behind her. “Come on,” she said, “the next bridge is upstairs.”

They made for the stairs. Before they reached them, they heard hurried footsteps, followed closely by a servant, clutching a mixing spoon in a white-knuckled grip. She made it halfway to them and froze, taking in the sight of armed raiders coming in from the direction opposite the sounds of battle. The spoon fell from her hand, clattering and bouncing off of the steps in the immediate silence of the room.

Then she ran. Asha went after her, but Rolfe was faster, taking the stairs two steps at a time and splitting her temple with his axe. Mykk paused to check if she was still alive before tearing up the stairs after Rolfe. Asha rushed after, followed by Qarl and Hagg.

The first floor Asha entered was barren and ill-used. The floor above it was not. The air was warmer with the heat of several fires. The scent of bloody fish left on the cutting boards mixed unwholesomely with the scent of stew in the pots over the fire. A pair of servant girls who had not yet fled the kitchen cowered in a corner, the younger one barely more than a girl looked close to crying in fear.

“The cellar,” said Hagg, “they must have gone down there.”

Asha motioned for them to head to the door towards the Great Keep, and approached the two girls in the corner. “You two,” she said, “keep in that corner and keep your mouths shut unless I say otherwise, and you won’t get hurt.”

The older one nodded and put an arm around the other. Ulli and Teyg and the others were on their way up, and she motioned for them to follow her to the doorway.

The bridge between the Great Keep and the Kitchen Keep was stone instead of rope, built when the gap between the buildings was smaller than the sheer-cliffed gorge between them now. It was a longer bridge, and either end of it had the remains of the arched roof, while the long central expanse was bare. The clang and roar of battle was close; the Botleys had gotten through the gatehouse. Asha strode forward, gripping the handle of her right hand axe firmly.

A man came out of the Great Keep opposite her, naked sword in hand. His face was turned back at the doorway he had left, and his grey hair whipped about in the wind. As he passed out of the shelter of stone, he turned towards her and stopped. Asha stopped as well. A bolt of lightning flashed through the sky, illuminating both their faces.

Balon Greyjoy stood stock still on the stone bridge, rainwater rapidly darkening his clothes. He wore an expression Asha had never seen on his face before: shock.

The thunder rumbled. Light faded, robbing her father’s face of features as it went. He was far away, too far to hear over the waves of sound. He stepped forward, moving his sword out ahead of him. The shadows all around him became profound, as though the wind blew them around his body. 

Then lightning flashed again, striking the roof of the Great Keep behind him. Her father fell to the side, and for a split second the shadows around him resembled a second person. Then the thunder split the air, and Balon was going down, sliding off the bridge, falling free.

  
“Father!” Asha called out, and then he was gone. Asha didn’t bother looking over the edge. There would be nothing to see. The only evidence he was ever there was the naked sword on the stones in front of her, and the disquiet in her heart at his passing.


	5. Theon III

Broken planks and charred timbers littered the sea around Lannisport as the fighting died down. What ships had fled port had fled already, what ships that stayed and fought were captured or crushed, and there was the scent of smoke, blood, and hewn bodies that lay over the salty brine of the sea air.

Theon was glad to be rid of it. The battle at sea was perhaps the worst fight of his life. While his crew fought with skill on the deck of the  _ Sea Bitch _ , Theon felt as though he was one step from death the entire time. The longship bucked and rolled with the tide, shuddered at every impact, and had the Lannister men fought less like Lannisters on land and more like Ironborn at sea, he knew he would have died at least twice.

Yet that is the throne I seek, intruded a thought, which he shook off. It is hard enough maneuvering around the Drumms and the Goodbrothers, without doubting myself. He had left Harras Harlaw in charge of the siege, and gone to shore with Wex, Hard Helman Snow, and Gadwyk, his most enthusiastic supporter.

The area around the harbor was walled with cliffs, and beyond them the hills of the Westerland squatted like a crouching army. On one of them, stood a mass of horses decorated in black and grey. On either side, light reflected of of steel helmets, but the center figure only wore a long braid of auburn hair.

The party approached on foot, silent, until they stood directly below Catelyn and her guards. Lady Stark’s face had changed since last Theon saw her. She was more lined now, but her expression was less distrusting.

“Lady Stark,” Theon said.

“Theon,” said Catelyn, “or is it King Theon, now?”

Theon smiled. “King Theon has a certain ring to it, doesn’t it.”

Catelyn gave a humorless smile. “I must admit, your decision saved us from a great deal of blood. You have my thanks.”

“It was not for you that I rose against my father,” said Theon.

“Yes,” said Catelyn, frowning, “yet you did it. I do not know what that says about your character.”

Gadwyk looked as though he was about to say something, but Theon clapped him on the shoulder.

“You wonder whether I turned on my own family for profit, or if I did it for honor.”

“I do.”

“When I went back to Pyke, the people who called themselves my family treated me as an outsider. As someone who is unworthy of trust. Robb is more my brother than any of my blood. My father commanded me to turn on my brother, and I turned on him.”

Catelyn looked at him closely, as if looking for the lie in his face. But Theon matched her gaze. That is the person I want to be, he thought, that is is the person I am.

Catelyn was the first to break the stare. “Very well. In the name of Robb, King of the North and the Riverlands, I extend a hand of friendship to Theon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands. You have reaped what you have sown.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. It has come to an end. This project has been a shadow at my back for two years. When I started it, I was neck-deep in A Song of Ice And Fire mania, but due to some personal events, that fire died fast. I wish I had retained the drive to make a sprawling work of fan fiction, but I am satisfied with the product I have created. I hope you enjoyed this, and if it is not all that it you hoped, then I hope that you can create that better fic which gives you what you desire.  
> -Zac


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